When We Believe
by Lidsworth
Summary: When a job goes from bad to worse, Takaba Akihito finds himself at the mercy the Russian Mafia, and a very a psychotic Yuri who is hungry for revenge. Nearly paralyzed, tormented, and miles away from Japan, Takaba begins to count his days. Hopefully Asami can save him before its too late.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I apologize in advance for any misspelled words, or grammar mistakes. We're learning about abnormal psychology in psychology class, so I decided to make a tiny story dedicated to Yuri, and Takaba. It has hints of horror, sadness and a happy ending! =D But it has some angst. We'll say that Yuri miraculously survived (which'll be explained later), got fed up with Akihito, and found him. And now, he wants Akihito to pay for mocking him. And the story begins...**

**Summary: **When a job goes from bad to worse, Takaba Akihito finds himself at the mercy the Russian Mafia, and a very a psychotic Yuri who is hungry for revenge. Nearly paralyzed, tormented, and miles away from Japan, Takaba begins to count his days.  
Hopefully Asami can save him before its too late.

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Finder Series. **

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Cloaked in the murky darkness, the bright crescent moon hung loosely overhead a shady warehouse. Small stars illuminated the mysterious sky, and bore their dull light upon the specters that walked around the interior of the abandoned building.

Inside the structure, the rusting building emitted a musty smell. It was most likely a result of the peeling walls, that rusted with leakage and broken pipes that seeped onto the rough surfaces.

An uneven number of lights hung over head, twitching and blinking as they fought to harness the power of the central, dying unit.

Below the molding ceiling, a few feet down, stood two men, behind each of them, two more.

They both dressed in accordance to the situation, and sported heavy dark coats to blend in with the young night, thick leather gloves to prevent any finger prints, of necessary, and dark hats to hide their faces from any unwanted insect, who may have found its way into the trade off.

While their clothes had been well chosen, their body language was another story.

They wreaked of nervousness, and uncertainty. Even from his hidden position, crouched along one of the rails overhead, Takaba could see their movements betraying their initial intentions.

They wanted to appear intimidating, to appear in complete control of the situation. But they were in enemy territory, and they were working on borrowed time.

Takaba wanted them to either finish this weapons deal in the next ten minutes, or somehow, miraculously get caught by whoever property they were trespassing on.

The place was disgusting, the rotting smell turned Akihito's stomach, and boiled the bile in his throat.

The smell was getting to him, and he felt slightly nauseous. Not to mention, the stuffiness was congesting his sinus passages, which in turn sparked a budding migraine.

He snapped a quick photo of the trade, and did so when the two men conversed, in order to mask the camera shutter with their foreign language.

His lens zoomed in, and magnified the image tremendously.

He caught a sliver of blond, curly hair peeking from under the rim of the cap. The lips were thin and pale, and the eyes were invisible to him.

The other man practically mirrored his partner.

Takaba snapped another photo, though he doubted the worth of the image.

Suddenly, in his jean pocket, his phone began to vibrate. Quickly, while holding his large camera in ne hand, he dove for his phone in another.

It read Asami Ryuochi.

Quickly, he ended the call and put it back into his pocket. Talking risked exposure, and exposure meant death...or worse.

He made to continue his photo shoot, but the buzzing phone deterred his initial task.

It read Asami Ryuochi, again.

Takaba sighed, and slid to the green phone icon.

"What Asami?" he whispered, "I-"  
"Where are you?" Asami's stern, demanding voice cut into Takaba's explanation, "It's already eight, you're not home yet. Why?"  
Takaba ran a rushed hand through his hair and sighed, "I'm working," he hissed, "I'll be back later!"

"Hmm."

"Okay, I'll-"  
"Akihito, I advise you to refrain from causing me anymore unnecessary trouble," their was a hint of annoyance under the stern tone, though if listened too more closely, Takaba reckoned he picked up on a hint of worry, "Get home quickly."

Takaba rolled his eyes, he wasn't some wimpy kid that couldn't take care of himself. Asami was always thinking so little of him.

"Then leave me alone and I won't cause trouble for you," he retorted, unaware that is voice had raised slightly.

There was a pregnant pause.

"You're ungrateful sometimes," the older man replied causally, "Or oblivious."

"And you're an insane bastard," the photographer replied with a smirk, "and a control freak!"

Asami chuckled on the other line, and Takaba could feel the mirth leaking through the signal. A smile crept to his face.

"Get home quickly," In all seriousness, he reaffirmed his response, "before your absence becomes a bother."

"Can't live without me, Ryuuchi?" the younger man teased.

"Getting a little too bold, Akihito:" the older man retorted.

"Maybe I'm just getting too comfortable, but can you blame me?"

Asami hesitated momentarily. He sighed on the phone.  
"I suppose pets do grow accustomed to their owners affection. Do you _crave _my affection, Akihito," his voice dropped a few octaves, and became increasingly smooth, and seductive.

Takaba felt the enticing pull tug loosely on his heart. Asami was a master at distracting him from his job.

"You jerk! I don't crave anything from you, and I'm not your damn pet!" The photographer's face heated up slightly, "I'll be back later! I've got work to do! Work!"

A final chuckle from the golden eyed man saw an end to the call, and left a blushing Akihito nearly alone in the dark warehouse.

Optimism certainly worked as a temporary antidote for his waning nausea, however, with Asami's voice no longer bubbling in his ear, Takaba began to feel sick all over again.

And to make matters worse, upon his careful observation, he realized that the trade off had ended, and that the specters hovering around the bottom floor were gone.

"_Shit!" _he hissed, squinting through his lens to discern their figures through the dimly lit building.

He looked around frantically.

Drip...  
Drip...

Drip...

Somewhere in the warehouse, a leaky pipe spilled into a growing petal of mossy water, an old fly, who spent most of his days attacking a blinking light, finally made contact with the searing glass surface, and was struck dead on impact.

It fluttered to the wet ground, and joined the hollow bodies of its dead brothers on the rusty floor.

Takaba felt sick. He needed to get out. Something bad was about to happen.

He stood up in a shuffle, as his nerves began to get the best of him. His heart beat became erratic, the pounding in his head intensified, and he nearly tripped over his own feet.

Not even caring about the amount of noise he was producing in the hollow building, the photographer scuffled from his secure place near the railing, and made to exit the dead building.

Instantly, he heard heavy footsteps in his wake, and they were pounding after him like running elephants.

He increased his pace, and broke out into a desperate sprint, peering into the dim pass.

The blinking lights made the pain in his head radiate, and he brought a hand to his face to obscure their rays.

The footsteps were growing closer.

A shallow puddle, cloaked in the dark, became his unfortunate demise. Within seconds of making contact with the watery surface, his running foot slipped backwards, his balance went to the wind, and he collided on the metal floor with a loud "thud".

The air was roughly knocked out of him as his camera crashed into his stomach at his sudden fall.

He struggled for breath.

"Look at what we have here," spoke a gruff masculine voice, laced with rough accent. "A spy?!" said other one, which was slightly higher than the first, but bore the same accent.

Takaba didn't look up, he was in too much pain. And as a foot collided with his back, the pain only increased.

"Who are you working for!?" the deep one demanded in English, "Who sent you!" Takaba struggled to catch himself, as the foot crushed deeper and deeper into his back.

He could feel the hot tears boiling in his eyes as the pain erupted through his back.

"Do you think that Mikhail Arbatov is on a trail?" whispered the other dealer, in hushed tones, "Do you think he knows we stol-"  
"Shut up about that!" cried the other, "We don't need him-"

He was silenced by a hot bullet that tore clean through his blond head. In an instant, the pain in Takaba's back lessened considerably, and the large man tumbled to the ground.

Though the previous pain from slipping still plagued his body, he managed to stand up as quickly as he could, and stagger down the metal corridor.

Left to mourn for his fallen friend, the other dealer was killed as a parade of bullets ripped his body to shreds, like ribbons. Akihito ran for his life as bullets pelted the ground like hail behind him. The fleet of stairs was in his view, he just needed to run a little faster, just-

Takaba gave out a strangled cry as a hot bullet grazed his cheek. Another pierced his shoulder, and brushed against his ankle.

Takaba came tumbling down with a bloody crash. A pool of red, warm liquid, and dirty water fanned out below him, and seeped into the heavy fabric of his clothing. His camera had ringed itself off of his neck, and slid to the shadowy corner.

He lay flat on his stomach, gasping for breath, and screaming as the pain in his shoulder burned throughout his body. He could hear the footsteps coming closer. They echoed around the hollow interior, amplifying as they got closer, and closer, and closer.

With each heavy step, Takaba's wails grew more quiet, his breath grew rigid, and his eyes searched the darkness for the enemy.

He couldn't see him, for he was standing right behind the crumpled for.

"What's this?" the voice cut through the darkness, in a feral whisper. A heavy foot snaked under his bleeding shoulder, and turned him over roughly.

Takaba gasped in pain. Through his obscured vision, he looked at the man above him, who now placed a heavy foot on his injured shoulder.

Akihito squealed at the pain intensified.

"Shh..shh," cooed the man, "we must stop the bleeding, or you will die."

His breath was ragged, and his heart was beating fast. A thin lair of sweat had already coated the surface of his grime covered skin. Dark blue eyes stared at the figure above him.

Despite their being in a near dark corridor, the swinging lights above head periodically caught the large outline of his captor.

Be it of blood loss, or his impending doom, the photographer's eyes widened a the man above him.

Hell, Akihito was defiantly going to hell, because the human incarnation of Lucifer himself was standing before him.

Those dark, unforgiving eyes still haunted Akihito in his dreams, and not even Asami's "treatment" could forever eradicate those dark marks that laced Takaba's thin neck.

Yuri's cold gaze weighed down upon him like iron bricks, and his foot weighed even more on the photographer's chest.

The foot shuffled in the raw wound, and injured the ripped muscle. Takaba gave another cry, as Yuri repeated the action.

Questions surged through Akihito's head.

_Why is he here!? What is he doing here?! Is he going to kill me!?  
_

The man's features were gentle, though. They were more concerned than they were malicious, as if the older man was debating on causing anymore pain for Akihito.

With the darkness consuming the couple, Akihito wasn't surprised that the man didn't recognize him, but it would only be a matter of time.

And then Yuri's changed.

All concern melted from his facial expression, and morphed into a nasty glare. Twisted and angry, he bore down upon Takaba like a solider delivering judgment to an enemy.

"You're _still _alive!?" the Russian hissed in harsh Japanese.

Akihito was in too much pain to respond, not to mention, his body was trembling with fear. He noticed the older man's eye patch, and a scar going down the covered cheek.

He looked like an evil pirate.

Takaba watched in utter horror as the older man withdrew a pistol from his side, removed his foot from Takaba's bloodied shoulder, and knelt down slowly.

Takaba was too scared to consider running. Usually, he wouldn't have gone out without a fight.

But this was Yuri...this man was insane.

"You know," the Russian whispered into the boy's ear, as he leaned over his injured form, "I should kill you for _tempting _me like you did on the boat."

His warm breath brushed on Takaba's ear, and the fabric of his jacked rubbed on the photographer's face. Expensive cologne filled his nostrils, clogging his sinus' more than the moldy smell of the dying building had.

The Japanese shuddered as hot anger filled his veins. How dare this...this man accuse him of tempting him?! It wasn't his fucking fault that creeps from the Underworld paraded around him. These men only acted on impulse, and Yuri was no exception.

"You pervert!" Roared Akihito, as a new confidence radiated within his heart, "I didn't do any_"

A gun to his stomach silenced him instantly, taking his confidence along with it.

"Speak and I'll shoot," the Russian spoke casually, "Shut up...and I still shoot...the world should be purged of trash such as yourself."

Yuri's finger straddled the metal trigger, playing with it, and testing it's limits.

Takaba's heart stopped.

Yuri shot.

Akihito waited for the blinding pain. He waited for the hot agony to take him, and drag him down to oblivion.

But Nothing happened. The "click" echoed throughout the vacant space, bounced off of the walls, and returned to the duo.

Somewhere, in the warehouse, Yuri's men searched for the goods, turned over boxes, and old tables, looking for anything that the traitors may have hidden.

They were completely unaware that they were in one of Asami's abandoned warehouses.

"Are you familiar with," Yuri drew out slowly, fingering the trigger once again, "Russian Roulette?"

Takaba cried in pain, desperation, and surprisingly, anger, but Yuri's gloved hand muffled his sobs.

He wanted to fight back and punch this man straight across the jaw. He wanted to knee him in the gut. But any form of retaliation warranted a slow and painful death.

"Shh, quiet now. Let's play," Yuri smirked as he dragged the gun along the boy's abdomen, "you see, it's a simple game. I shoot, you either get shot, or you don't. In the end, it's in God's hands."

Takaba gulped, and click sounded again. Fuck this man and his religion, Akihito was about to die because of Yuri's insane fantasies. There was no "god" in that, just plain insanity.

His life began to flash before his young eyes.

The photographer's memories surged through his head. Things he said, things he couldn't say, things he regretted...when did he last tell his parents-

The trigger was pulled once again, and the click echoed around the warehouse.

Distant memories flowed through his mind like the roaring rapids. He remembered his first birthday, he remembered meeting his new family, remembered when his brother was kidnapped, he remembered coming to Tokyo, changing his major to photography...he remembered Asami.

Sensual Smells, and lustful caresses filled his head. The bright golden eyes, the soft lips, the soft hair, the smell, the touches...

Takaba's eyes burned with salty tears as another echo filled the warehouse. Everything was about to be taken from him.

And he never once told Asami he loved him...but did the man love him back anyway? He was extremely comfortable with that Sudoh, as well as that actress Azumi.

He hardly spoke to Takaba anymore, he was always arriving home late, and never told Takaba about his shady dealings.

Takaba felt more like a burden than a lover...was Asami embarrassed of him-

Hot metal tore through his stomach, and lodged into his spine. Takaba screamed into Yuri's gloved hand, and bit down as the pain escalated.

He drew blood.

"You whore!" the man screamed as he withdrew his hand from the photograph's mouth, "You dirty whore! How dare you touch me with your impure lips!"

Takaba was struck in the face. His body was racked with sobs, as he cried out in agony. His back was on fire, and his legs were fading away.

He withered in his own blood, and Yuri soaked in the disgusting scene a artistic killer did to his pleading victims.

He loved this.

"You're just a whore," snarled the older man, as he kicked him roughly in the ribs, "a whore that likes to tempt holy men. You're just like that Chinese slut," he spat, "like my treacherous son, and my godforsaken nephew" he lodged another kick into the ribs, and a resounding crack bounced off the walls.

Takaba screamed himself hoarse.

"Like my _bitch _of a wife," he spat, "you should all burn in hell!"

He had broken off into a string of Russian curses to the point of mad hysterics. His kicking became harder, and more accurate. Akihto believed that his ribs had been reduced to nothing but a pasty mush, and assumed that his organs were following the same path.

Another blow was dealt to the photographer's non existent ribcage, and the lights cut off abruptly in his head.

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**I know I haven't updated any of my stories recently, but I'm working on the older ones. For instance, I'm trying to update "Walk the Track" before I update "Black Sheep", and hopefully "Must be the Nargles" by the beginning of summer. I haven't forgotten about my stories, and if some of them are suddenly deleted, check my page for further information. **

**I've probably just moved them to live jounral. **

**I felt like there needed to be a Yuri centered story, kinda, so I wrote one. It will make sense later, so please stick around. There are a lot of unanswered questions, and the further I go with this, the more I hope to answer. Asami knows (or will know), that they're there, so perhaps he can rescue Akihito on time. Mikhail will be in it, and so will Fei Long. Again, I hope you enjoyed this, please tell me what you think, and helpful critique is welcomed (but flames are not). **

**Have a wonderful week, and God bless!**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: So with what little I know about psychological disorders, and what little I know of Yuri. I diagnosed him with either Intermittent Explosive disorder, or Bipolar disorder. If it is bipolar disorder we're talking about, i'm going to have to assume he was the way he was before age 25, and a little in his early years. Also, bipolar disorder makes more sense than intermittent explosive disorder, as throughout the Honk Kong arc, when forced watch Takaba, Yuri's face changed from anger, to remorse, etc.**

**Also, I would like to address Pandora's review. First of all, thank you a lot for the review, and I would like to answer it. **

**No one in my past has caused me any sort of pain that warrants a sadistic tendency within me. It was something I "grew up" with. As far as I can remember, I was always fascinated with seeing my favorite characters hurt, badly. But I also wanted to fix them as well, not as a doctor for their wounds, but kinda like a doctor that helped them heal. **

**I was curious to see how far pain could take someone, and if it brought them to the point of no return. It thrilled me to think of things like that, but I always wanted to help. It is a bit sadistic, and i've come a long way since then, but that's the reasoning, some what. **

**I hope that was a good enough explanation! And thank you for the rest of you who reviewed as well!**

**Also, I bumped the rating, because i'm getting ubber descriptive with what happens. **

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He woke up multiple times, in different locations.

The first time he figured, from what he could feel, and hear, that he was in a vehicle of some sort. He bounced around like a lifeless rag doll, his limbs wriggling like grass in the wind, and his head bobbed back and fourth like a bobble head.

Once or twice, he'd fallen on the rough car rug on the bottom of the seat. Though his body was partially numb, save from the dull throbbing in his back, he still passed out on impact.

When he woke up a second time, his nerves had woken with him. The pain was hostile, and raw. It stemmed from the wound that had pierced through his stomach, and lodged itself into his spine. From his agonizing withering, he could tell that he was atop of a large, bed. Beneath him, his blood had soaked the sheets, and seeped into his clothing, making the fabric itchy and sticky against his sweaty skin.

His throat was bone dry, a thin sheen of sweat had coated his entire body, and he was panting like a thirsty dog.

He forced his red eyes to open, and immediately welcomed an inky darkness into his sight.

Not even a window was open, or a sliver of light visible. He couldn't even see under the door, if there was one.

Even without a physical touch, the injured photographer felt assaulted by this mirky darkness. With a painful effort, he forced his head to turn at uncomfortable angles, in order to discern an object of any sort.

But he found nothing.

Eventually, he succumbed to the pain, and fell into another deep slumber.

Opposite of the second, Akihto woke now enveloped in light, and the potent smell of latex gloves. Oddly, his throat was drier than it was previously, and it burned.

It burned badly.

He could feel the cold sheen of metal against his soft organs, and could feel tweezers pulling at dead, bloody tissue. A finger brushed against his exposed spinal chord, sending shivers up the bone. Another dug into the vertebrae, maneuvering around the lodged piece metal.

It wasn't until then that the pain in his throat suddenly began to register.

He was being operated on, yet, the doctor's hadn't bothered to put him under.

He was screaming himself hoarse.

With each slice of a scalpel, the pain opened his eyes.

A bright light hung above head, swinging murderously, like those long lights did in old horror movies. Faceless men and women dressed in blue, bloodied scrubs moved around him like flies attracted to a dying corpse. The poked, and prodded at him.

Each gesture caused more pain than the last, and slowly drove Akihito insane. It was like a burning itch that couldn't be tended too, like a growing fire that could not be tamed.

His chest caved in with each strangled breath, his body trembled in their leather confines at each advance a doctor made to his body.

He was vomiting, and chocking on the warm substance. He looked around at the lifeless faces, his large eyes pleading them to stop, pleading them to end the pain.

But these people weren't human, they were monsters.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOODark pink stitches lined sealed the fresh wound on the upper layer of his stomach. Angry skin overlapped itself, as the large wire was grossly sewed into his body. He panted, though not as rough as he had one before.

He lay on the clean hospital bed that the doctors had provided for him after his surgery. Loose, light blue scrubs hung about his thin frame. The shirt was lifted up slightly, enough to expose the red marks on his stomach, and to allow a needle passage into the skin.

They overdosed him on pain killers, so the pain hadn't taken full effect yet.

His eyes fluttered as he attempted to keep himself awake. His head rolled to the side of his fluffy pillow, allowing him to soak in the large machines, and white walls around him.

His breath was slightly steadier now, and he could think clearly.

Somewhere, perhaps standing directly outside of the door, a conversation was taking place. Through the thick wood, he could hardly make out the words, though they was there nevertheless.

The words were muffled and unclear, though he could make out a distinct accent.

Thick, bubbly, and rough...all components came together to create the perfect, intimidating Russian accent.

He turned his heavy head to the door, and watched to door knob jiggle slightly, as the intruders made way to enter. With the creaking of the old door, the voices became louder and clearer.

The language was a jumble of mismatched words, and syllables. The tone fluctuated as two tall men walked into the room, seemingly interested in their conversation.

Had be been able to scream, he would have. Because Yuri was one of the men who had entered the room. The other was younger, much younger. His build was smaller than that of Yuri's, though his white coat sat rested above a muscular form. His straight hair was light brown, and his eyes were a dull blue, with large bags growing beneath them.

He followed behind Yuri with a sort of tiredness about him, with his shoulders hunched, and his gaze downcast. He looked exhausted.

The two continued to converse in their language. From his darkening vision, Takaba gathered that Yuri was very kinesthetic, as he could not speak without waving his hands in the air.

The brunette doctor, on the other hand, was the exact opposite, and kept his hands to himself.

Their appearances hadn't been the only thing that Akihito had caught onto. While their language was near alien to him, he was able to discern certain names from the conversation.

"Mikhail" and "Fei Long" had popped up more than once, and upon the mention of the Chinese man, Yuri's gestures became slightly more aggressive, and ferocious.

The doctor just looked at his feet, and Takaba fell into an intoxicating sleep.

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When he woke again, he woke as a prisonor of his own body. Though the trapped-like sensation hadn't registered to him, until the sound of Yuri snapping his fingers echoed within Takaba's dizzy head.

"Snap"

The sound bounced off the insides of his head, sounding smooth and distant, like the ocean in a shell.

The snap sounded again, and again. With each "Snap", the sluggish sensation within Akihito dissolved, and was replaced with keen awareness.

Seconds later, the image came to view. Yuri was in front of him, bent down slightly as he snapped before the photographer in order to get his attention.

The timid brunette stood behind him with a clip board in his hand, furiously marking up a white sheet of paper. Once or twice, he looked up at Akihito, but hastily returned to his clip board.

"Your eyes, they're aware." Began the older man as his snapping came to a halt, "How do you feel?"

What the hell? What kind of question was that? Takaba felt like shit, and it was _because _of Yuri that he was like this.

All caution, and fear was thrown to the wind, and Akihito made an attempt to hurl a wave of insults at the Russian man. However, not a sound came out of his mouth. Not even a muscle in his face twitched, though he could feel his face.

His legs, however, were a different story.

Breathing erratically, he looked in horror at the man before him. What had he done to his body? Why couldn't he move?

"Calm down," instructed Yuri, as he lifted the boy's face under his chin, "I'm being merciful now. You don't deserve it though. A swine like you deserves to die."

He smiled, and peered into the blue eyes, "When Christ exorcised Legion out of the sinner, he cast them into the swine. As a result, the swine ran off of a cliff, as they were driven insane by the demonic possession."

Takaba's head fell to his chest as Yuri's supporting finger slipped from under his chin. However, the man's looming presence could still be felt above him.

Yuri began to pace.

"I could kill you right now, and put you out of your misery," thoughtfully suggested the older man, as he placed a hand on Takaba's head, "a devil like you does not deserve to breath the same air we do...your mere existence is evil, a proof of sin."  
From behind the photographer, he leaned down, so that his lips were leveled with his ear.

"And it has been said often, many times, that Lucifer was the most beautiful angel to prance through Heaven. With your Heavenly charm, and your beauty, how to I know you're not trying to entice me?"

He straightened up, and the bones popped in his back.

"Our Lord refused to end Satan's existence," Yuri continued, his voice leveled and calm, "So what gives me the right to personally end yours? Let the devil within you eat you up from the inside. You, who cannot move, who cannot fend for himself, will be left to cave in from the inside."

Takaba listened in terror. _He _wasn't the demon! Yuri was fucking insane!

"I will leave you to rot in your own filth, as the devil rots in his fiery pit. And as the swine rots at the bottom of their cliff. It will be long, and agonizing," the Russian purred gleefully, "but you can repent on your death bed."

He was breathing harder now, his eyes were open wide, and he struggled to move. A squeal erupted from his throat, his eyes began to water, and he tried, and _tried _to move!

Yuri looked with pure excitement. The Doctor looked with an impassive gaze. Yuri's phone buzzed in his pocket then, and the older man reached for the device.

It wasn't until then that Takaba realized that the man had been speaking Japanese, but at the phone call, he switched back to his native language, his attention averted away from Akihito. Though Takaba couldn't see him leave, he could hear his heavy footsteps exit the room, and could hear the door click shut.

Silence ensued for a minute, and Takaba truly feared that he was alone. Alone to suffer, alone to die...would Asami know where he was? Would he be saved? How could he-

"Don't be afraid, brat."

He hadn't even noticed that the Doctor had walked in front of him, and was now kneeling before him, lifting his chin up.

"Mikhail will not permit your death," he revealed, as he brought a hand to Akihito's face, rubbing the soft skin, "just bear with it for now, and I will do my best to keep you safe. But things will only get harder from here on out. You'll survive though, I know you will, brat."  
The doctor leaned forward, and placed a chaste kiss atop of the photographer's head.

"Stay safe, _brat." _

The doctor, though Russian, seemed oddly familiar. Perhaps he had been on the boat during the Honk Kong fiasco?

No...it was deeper than that. Friend...Family?  
The door clicked, and Akihito was truly alone.

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After the initial panic had worn off, Asami viewed the surveillance carefully, with a calm face.

He'd replayed the video hundreds of times, flipped through different frames, and zoomed into to certain faces. The closer he got to the specters, the foggier the footage grew. So the pictures taken by Akihito provided a clearer resolution.

It the impact of the camera colliding to the ground, it had turned on the shutter option. The camera was still capturing pictures when Asami and his men came to investigate the scene.

At the mere sight of the Russian mafia, Asami's blood boiled, though his face remained an emotionless mask. Rage would destroy him, and ruin his composer.

He smiled. So the Russians had decided to tamper with him? They didn't need to have any specific motives when the leader of the Russian mafia was Mikhail Arbatov.

He moved simply to spite his opponents, and for that, Asami would make him pay. Arrangements to Russia would be made promptly.

The phone on his desk rang, though he was too involved in the footage to pick it up. It went straigt to voice mail.

"_Listen, I don't have a lot of time to speak. It's about Akihito Takaba. He's alive, and well. But not for long. I can't tell you much more than that with the time I have. My name is Ivan, and I know Akihito. _

_I'll contact you when it gets safer. _

_Until then, goodbye. _

Then the line cut off.

**When taken to the extreme, religion can be terrible. I've seen it first hand. So I wanted to play on that in this chapter. Next chapter, I'll delve deeper into the mental state of Yuri. Asami will come into play a lot more, as will Ivan. Hope you liked this chapter, i'm working on my other works, so they'll probably be out after next week. Enjoy, and God bless!**


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